Murder in a small town

San Antonian Richard Teitz is on a two-year assignment as a Peace Corps volunteer in Panamá. Before that, he worked at St. Philip’s College, the Witte Museum and The Alamo.

I never thought much about crime here in the Panamanian campo, where life is tranquil, placid, and, face it, boring. So when I saw the murder early Thursday morning, it was a jolt. Well, I did not actually see it. I came on the scene, a half mile from my home, about two hours later, when I was on my morning run.

It occurred at the 24-hour gas station, Huaquitas, on the carretera, the main road, which interescts the Interamerican Highway on the south, and leads to the province of Bocas del Toro on the north. The Interamerican is basically a two-lane country road, usually under repair.

The two-pump gas station is the only place to gas up in 50 miles if you are heading toward Bocas, and 15 miles if you are going the other direction. It does a steady business, and I often see semis and big rigs loaded with food or building materials refueling there.

When I ran by the station at 6 a.m. there was already a crowd of people, several policia vehicles, an ambulancia, and many policemen milling around beyond yellow plastic tape strung across the pumps and building behind. I stopped to ask, and I got almost as many versions of what happened as there were people.

What was consistent was that around 4 a.m. there had been a bloody fight in the small office behind the pumps, and the night attendant was murdered. His throat had been cut. One story was he had been decapitated. It had been a robbery, said some, while others told me it was a fight over a woman. Still others blamed alcohol and drugs. The attacker had been captured, or he was being sought by the police, who did or did not have leads.

Next morning, the funeral was at the Evangelista church across the street from my house, Jesucristo es el Camino. There was an overflow crowd of mourners, and the service lasted a long time. I am likely to learn more in the coming days, but I know a man is dead.

People have been asking me if I am concerned about my own safety. Before I was not, but with this homicide in my own small town, I think about it. I live alone. My door has a single lock, and a well-placed kick would easily open it. The roof sits above the walls with ample space for someone to crawl through. My alarm system is a plastic whistle Peace Corps issued me, but I doubt my neighbors would hear it over the perpetual din of music, televisions, dogs, and their own shouting. And if they heard it, would they do anything.

Except for a dull kitchen knife, I have nothing that could be used for self defense. I own little of value, but locals probably assume I am rich because I am a gringo. I have no car, bicycle, no TV or home entertainment center, the things that identify you as un rico here. I rarely have more than $50 in my wallet. That, plus my cellphone, radio, watch, and a houseful of books in English, seem unlikely to target me for a crime of violence. But only a half-dozen blocks from my house in Gualaca, a man was brutally murdered two days ago.